


Product of Excellent Breeding

by Rowen_Berendt



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Homosexuality, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Promiscuity, Sexual Assault, Transvestite, Twincest, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowen_Berendt/pseuds/Rowen_Berendt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are a beautiful person Ranka" Kyoya really meant that, more than he knew, more than he is willing to admit. Soon he will learn all Fujioka females are a force to reckon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A picture's worth...

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Ouran High Host Club, this story is merely recreational. 
> 
> Warnings: All kinds of Mature themes. Homosexuality, Transvestite and other gender issues. Sexual assault, and general promiscuity. 
> 
> Additional notes: There are a few minor original characters. The story is Kyoya/Ranka, but they'll be involved with others especially Kyoya, before getting together.

Product of Excellent Breeding

Chapter 1: A picture's worth...

It is an unusual occurrence to have all the Ootori family together during dinner. The Father - usually busy with the management of the many medical companies under his power- and the two older sons- assisting and studding to become their father’s successors- shine for their absence at the dinner table more often than not.  
Tonight, however, is one of those rare occasions. Yoshio is sitting at the head of the table; his eldest son and heir sits at his right, followed immediately by the second son. To the patriarch’s left sits his only daughter Fujumi, and to her right is the place of the third son or rather the forth offspring of the family, Kyoya Ootori.  
Who’d prefer to be having dinner alone in his room as usual; in his opinion it’s less nerve wrecking. Whenever he is in the presence of his father everything becomes a matter of high polished manners and property. And so dinner is eaten in polite but strained silence or in equally polite but hypocritical conversations.  
Kyoya can’t wait to be out of there. He has a lot to do before bed and dinner with his father and brothers always extends unnecessarily, as they insist on bringing work home, even to the dining table.  
By the end of the entrée Kyoya can’t take the stifling atmosphere anymore. A few months ago the third son would’ve taken this opportunity to learn all he could about the affairs of the company; but since the Ouran Fair this kind of things fail to interest him in the way they did before. He has decided that that night he had proven himself to his father and brothers; when he backed up the company Gran Tonnerre had intended to buy, preventing the sale and returning all management to his father. That single act proves his competence and he thinks that at the present that is more than enough. Not that it has stopped his father from breathing down his neck. But Kyoya can’t care less, he has stepped outside of his frame and he is not stepping into it ever again. For the time being he will concentrate on his studies and the management of the Host Club. That is enough of a challenge as it is, what with Tamaki’s outrageous expenditures and Honey-senpai’s cakes.  
Kyoya debates if he should endure through the main course, but decides against it. The teen puts down his napkin and pushes back his chair drawing the attention of the other four at the table. A first tonight, and every other, as he is usually ignored while his father and brothers converse.  
“May I be excused?” it isn’t a question; he phrases it as one just to be polite.  
“But Kyoya you haven’t had dinner yet,” Fujumi intones concerned; his father simply looks at him disapprovingly, a look Kyoya is far too used to by now too give it any mind.  
“I am not hungry the entrée was enough for me and I have some school matters that need to be done before I retire for the night,” he explains for her sake only, already on his feet.  
“I’ll pass by your room later to bring you tea,” she offered kindly.  
He thanks her softly, gives his father and brothers a court bow ‘good night’ and leaves as quickly as he can without seeming to be in too much of a hurry. 

In his room Kyoya sighs wearily, that damn nightmare is over. Arming himself with his laptop and black notebook the teen sits on the floor at the low table and tackles the stack of folders waiting for him. His task is to select the pictures that will feature the next photo-book collection of the Host Club.  
This time around The Shadow King had managed to get a series of short photo shoots. A group of students are starting a photography club and Kyoya managed to strike a deal with them. The amateur photographers would take the pictures of the modeling hosts, keep the originals and the rights to use the pictures as they saw fit in their portfolios and projects. As well as having the rights to call on the host when they can’t find other willing models. In exchange Kyoya gets to publish and sell the photo books without giving any monetary compensation as long as he gives credit and promotes the photography club as the ones taking the pictures. He has to admit it’s a pretty profitable deal and the students do have talent capturing images through the lens. The photos are both high quality and the images creative and as close to candid as they can get in a shooting of amateur models and photographers. 

He starts with Tamaki’s, rolling his eyes and sighing whenever he comes across a particularly dramatic picture, which is more often than not. By the time dinner is finished and Fujumi comes in with tea Kyoya has already selected the pictures of all the members of the club, but Haruhi’s.  
In truth Kyoya lets his dick decide which photo to put in their collections; those pictures that stir his loins are the ones he chooses.  
With Tamaki is quite easy, the crush he has had on the blond for the last three years makes it quite easy for him to respond to the classy but provocative elegance of their Host Club King.  
With the twins it is the mischievousness, the forbidden fruit conundrum they arouse in others; be it to simply watch them together or better yet, in Kyoya’s opinion, to be trapped between them, and enjoy the sinful debauchery of brotherly love.  
What he looks for in Mori-senpai is right out manly sexiness, something that seems to pour out of the older boy in buckets. It is quite often that Kyoya has had to stop in the middle of sifting through photos to take care of the raging hard-on provoked by Mori’s pictures. Of all the Host Club members Mori is the only one apart from Tamaki that he’d like to sleep with, not romantically but for pure lust’s sake.  
Honey-senpai is a little more difficult, Kyoya isn’t into the whole jail-bait, pedophile’s wet dream thing. So what he looks for in Honey is the combination of cuteness with coy temptation; if that even makes sense. The photos the hypotensive lord chooses for his counterpart are the ones that either makes the girls want to cuddle the older boy to death, or the ones that he supposes would make an old pervert want to fuck the small kid senseless.  
Now, selecting Haruhi’s is a little more difficult for a number of reasons. First of all the ‘cross dresser’ didn’t inspire much desire in Kyoya, maybe because of the knowledge that ‘he’ is actually a she. But even as a boy Haruhi isn’t Kyoya’s type. Then there is the fact that he needs to choose her pictures very carefully, for unlike with the rest of the members; this particular selection has to be approved not only by an overzealous and dramatic Tamaki, but by an overprotective and equally dramatic father. That is right, after the last Lobelia fiasco, Kyoya has made it a point to inform one Mr. Rioyi Fujioka, aka Ranka, of every image of Haruhi that came out to the public view, the man had been pretty pissed about the whole incident. So what Kyoya chooses needs to stay clear of anything even the slightest provocative or insinuating and instead appeals to Haruhi’s simplicity, natural charm, kind openness and radiant warmth. 

He is in the middle of this particular hard task when Fuyumi comes in unannounced; a habit Kyoya doesn’t bother to correct her for anymore. As always she sets about serving tea -and it seems tonight she has brought dessert as well- quietly while he works, an easy and comforting routine. Though he’d never admit it, Kyoya has come to enjoy these times spent with his sister, like this evening. She keeps him company in a sibling sort of way; probably their easy companionship is the only relation he can consider to be close to what a normal functional family should be.  
His sister places a cup and a tart slice next to him. He lifts the cup to his lips absentmindedly, sipping carefully at the hot liquid and he can’t help but smile. She always got it just right, Fuyumi is the only one who knows how to prepare his tea just the way he likes it.  
“Thanks Fuyumi,” he says softly.  
She smiles at him and sits on the sofa behind him, as he always prefers to sit on the floor when he works at the low coffee table.  
“What are you working on?” she asks conversationally. She always shows interest on his projects, genuinely intrigued by what he does in his club or free time.  
“I’m selecting the photos for the new Host Club album collection,” he explains indicating the scattered folders and pictures all over the table, the one containing Haruhi’s sprawled before him.  
“Oh, well I’ll leave you to your work,” she says and makes to stand.  
“Actually Fuyumi,” he starts stopping her mid motion.  
Fuyumi tries to get involve in his life, a fact he isn’t always comfortable with, but maybe this time he can let her participate. He could use some help selecting his own pictures. It was part of the deal, or more a demand made by Renge, seconded by the king, the twins and the boy lolita – damn traitors all of them.  
Honestly what could they be thinking? If there is something harder than selecting Honey-senpai and Haruhi’s pictures, it’s choosing his own. In his opinion he is the most average looking of all the hosts –well maybe not more than Haruhi. Kyoya is by no means a chronic narcissist like Tamaki; and since he doesn’t trust Renge’s judgment of his character; it seems that allowing his older sister to select the photos for him is the best option, she always sees him in a different light. Though Kyoya has the sneaky suspicion –certainty actually- that no matter if he hand picks the images or chooses them randomly blindfolded, they’d sale just as good.  
“I was thinking if you are not occupied at the moment, maybe you could give me a hand with these,” he says offhandedly.  
But she can hear the hesitation in his voice; this is a first, Kyoya never asks for help. Containing a smile and her excitement at the prospect of helping him she answers. “Of curse Kyoya, whatever you need.”  
“Alright then.” He scoots to the side signaling for her to join him on the floor. She sits on the rug happily, this too is a first; Kyoya always keeps formalities even with her, but not tonight.  
“I need you to look at these and pick the ones you think are best suited for the album,” he explains taking a folder that lay by his hip on the floor; he pushes the folder towards her. 

Opening the folder Fuyumi can’t help but to be surprised. They are pictures of Kyoya himself. She had expected to be asked to choose the pictures for one of the other boys of the club not Kyoya’s; he is a very private and self-conscious teen. The older sister smiles as a wave of affection fills her, flattered that her little brother trusts her that much and she had never noticed.  
“Fuyumi is something wrong?” he asks a brow arched in concern as she just sits there and stares at the pictures. “I know they don’t look that good, so just pick whatever you think is best,” he adds with a self-depreciating shrug.  
Now she stares at him, “What? Don’t be silly, these are great,” she assures him readily finally pulling out of her stuntmen to sift through the photos. “My, my! You are a handsome boy Kyoya,” she comments, a hint of teasing but mostly in an honest prize.  
The third son fights the blush that tries to creep up his neck and rolls his eyes dismissively.  
“Now don’t be like that, I’m not just saying that,” she admonishes him lightly.  
“Alright then, please pray tell, what in your opinion makes me of all people so handsome?”  
Her pleased excitement makes Kyoya think maybe he shouldn’t have asked after all. She looks at the pictures for a moment before picking one and scooting closer to him.  
“First of all, have you looked at yourself? You have a slight built, not too broad shoulders and narrow hips. Refined features and sharp eyes with a penetrating gaze that is breathe taking. Smooth skin and stylish hair. You are any girl’s dreamed boy.” The more she talks the more he blushes.  
“But is not just that,” she continues “see this picture here, your pose? You look elegant, confident, your presence demands attention.” The photograph in question is one of Kyoya from the waist up; arms crossed looking down at the camera. The teen looks at the image with raised brows, did she really see all that in one picture?  
“It also makes you look kind of cold and distant though, intelligent and calculating,” she adds with a slight frown.  
That is the point, he admits silently. After all, I am the product of excellent breeding, he thinks to himself a little listlessly.  
“Now this one, the way you are glancing back over your shoulder with that enigmatic smirk; it makes the viewer feel like you know something about them that they themselves don’t know.”  
Which I probably do, he agrees with a bit of pride.  
“It’s a mischievous, playful side of you,” she explains.  
Kyoya’s brows shoot up to his hair line. He has many sides, he knows and admits that much; but he never considered he had a playful side, he can’t allow himself to.  
“Alright, Alright, I get it,” he concedes in hopes to stop her ranting about his ‘qualities’. It unnerves him that she can read him so easily. The third son wanders if everyone who sees those photos is able to perceive the same thing his sister does and for a moment he seriously considers burning them all. 

Fuyumi continued sifting through the photos occasionally pointing out to him what she saw in it, while he concentrates on Haruhi’s pictures.  
“Kyoya?”  
“hmm?” he responds absentmindedly.  
“Can I have this one?” she asks hesitantly.  
Kyoya looks up surprised, what photo could she possibly want to keep for herself? He glances down at the picture she is holding and feels color rising to his cheeks. He remembers that picture. It was mostly a face shot. It depicts Kyoya with slightly disheveled hair, no glasses and laughing out loud; and oddly enough Ussa-chan appears tugged under his chin, one fluffy pink ear caressing his cheek. What the photo fails to show is the circumstances in which the image was captured.  
The photographer, an enthusiastic girl and fan of the Host Club complained that she couldn’t get a picture in which Kyoya looked genuinely happy. The statement had cause some bantering and soon enough the Hitachins and Honey-senpai pounced on him, led by an overly enthusiastic Tamaki. The four of them cornered The Shadow King and, risking life and limb, proceed to tickle the life out of him. Tamaki knows for a fact Kyoya is very ticklish and try as he may to maintain his dignity, soon the tickling troop had reduced the bespectacled teen to a wriggling mass of laughter. It is the most candid photo of him ever taken.  
“Yes you can have it,” he concedes finally, how could he deny it to her, when she looks at it with so much affection and pride; even if he can’t understand why. 

In a short while the pictures where selected and Fuyumi even re-checked what he had chosen for the other boys, pointing some images she thought featured each one more accurately.  
“Thanks for the help Fuyumi,” he says softly as he organizes the slight mess on the low table.  
“It was my pleasure Kyoya. I had a great time, it was really fun. If you need me again don’t hesitate to ask,” she assures pleasantly as she picks up the tea tray.  
“I’ll keep it in mind, goodnight sis.”  
It takes her by surprise; it’s been years since he has called her that. She smiles, he doesn’t seem to have noticed his slip in formality. “Goodnight Kyo-chan,” she says re-taking the nickname she hasn’t called him by since he started middle school at his adamant request that she stopped, only Honey-senpai has the gall to call him that to his face this days. “And thank you for the photo,” she adds before he can protest to the childish nickname and surprises him further by placing an affectionate kiss on his forehead.  
The gesture leaves him shocked for a long time even after she left.


	2. The Okama, The Stalker and The Lawyer

Product of Excellent Breeding 

Chapter 2: The Okama, The Stalker and The Lawyer

Rioyi Fujioka or rather Ranka walks out of the Okama bar at 3 am. He is exhausted, it was a very busy night at the bar and he can’t wait to go home. With one final goodbye to his okama colleagues, Ranka buttons up his coat, hoists his purse on his shoulder, and starts the forty-five minutes’ walk home, a walk in high-heels mind you as much as his feet hurt.   
Barely a few blocks away from the bar a sudden chill runs the length of his spine, and the sensation of being watched creeps over him. He glances nervously over his shoulder but the deep shadows in the alleys and the poor lighting on the sidewalk makes it impossible for him to see who, if anyone, is lurking about. He tries to shake the uneasy feeling, but it only intensifies, growing more paranoid with every step, making him walk a little faster. After all, though rare as the events are, it wouldn’t be the first time a little too enamored costumer fallows him around. With that thought fear grips him as he realizes that; if he is indeed being fallowed and he knows this is the case, he can’t go home. No, it would put his precious daughter in danger.   
Thinking quickly Ranka decides to turn left instead of right and almost double back his way to the bar. After a few more blocks, and an eternity of pretending to be calmly walking home, the okama stops at the entrance of an apartment complex, much like the one he himself resides in if only a little bigger and nicer. The lights in the apartment 107 are on and Ranka could’ve cried in relief, a few more meters and he’d be safe. It takes all his will not to run, but casually walk to the door, he fishes a ring of keys from his purse and as he unlocks the door he calls in.  
“Honey, Ranka is home!”   
To anyone it would’ve sounded like a cheerful greeting. In truth it has the resident of the apartment reaching for the baseball bat next to the night stand, and hurrying out to receive the newcomer.   
Ranka saw the shadow of his friend in the hallway “Welcome home love,” he hears the familiar voice say and he closes the door behind him. Leaning against it he sags in relief, his purse sliding down his arm and falling on the floor forgotten.   
The man walks into the room bat in hand and peers out the window scanning the street. After a few minutes he can see a suspicious man lurking outside.  
“Do you recognize him?”   
Ranka’s eyes go wide and his heart skips a beat. He had hoped he was just being overly paranoid. He peers out and with a sinking feeling he nods.   
“He was at the bar tonight. He was being a little forceful so I had to seek Satake on him. He went screaming and kicking all the way to the street. I hoped it be the end of it,” Ranka explains with trepidation.  
After a few tense minutes the man finally walks away. The moment the lurker is out of sight Ranka sinks to the floor, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle, the other covers his trembling lips; his entire frame shaking like a leaf.   
Alarmed the owner of the apartment drops the bat and kneels before the distressed okama. “He’s gone, you are safe,” he reassured embracing Ranka gently.  
The transvestite clings to the man, hiccupping as tears run down and smudge his make-up along his cheeks.   
The man just hugs him whispering soothing words until Ranka calms down.   
Pulling away from the embrace Ranka reaches for his forgotten purse.  
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Seii,” he apologizes fishing for a handkerchief in his purse. “I’m also sorry for barging in unannounced, and bring you trouble at such late hour,” he dabs at the streaks of dark, run-down mascara he knows are staining his face. “But I really didn’t know what else to do. I just couldn’t lead that man home; not with Haruhi there alone almost every night,” the last comes out a little choked but Ranka manages to keep control.   
“It’s no problem, I understand; and you did the right thing, ensuring your daughter’s safety. You are always welcome in my home Rioyi,” the man said with a smile. “Come, help yourself to a hot shower; I’ll heat you some miso and rice, and call Haruhi to let her know you are staying the night in case that guy is still out there.”  
“Thanks Seiichiro,” Ranka says softly and makes his way to the bathroom.  
Seiichiro was a close friend of Kotoko, Ranka’s late wife. A fellow senior law student that had helped Kotoko start her lawyer career, and has kept close contact with the Fujioka family long after her death. He is a tall, well-built man, no more than a couple of years older than Ranka himself, with eyes the color of terracotta and light brown hair streaked with silvery strands at the sides –that testify not to his age but the stress of working in a court of law. Seiishiro has an open honest smile and gentle disposition. He has never judged Ranka’s way of life and respects the way in which he is educating his daughter, offering to help Haruhi with her dream of becoming a lawyer, as he did with her mother. 

After a shower Ranka finds himself sitting on the floor at Seii’s table; make-upless, hair bundled up with a couple of pins and dressed in a decidedly too large t-shirt and sweatpants; a steaming cup of miso and a bowl of plain rise before him.   
“How is Haruhi?” the father asks.   
“Worried, naturally,”   
Ranka flinches, he hates to be such a burden on his daughter. Sometimes it feels like he is the child and she is the parent.   
“I assured her you are safe and she said to tell you: ‘be careful and goodnight dad’. Now eat.”   
Ranka eats in silence; Seii pretends to work on a case’s files, while he watches the other man intently until he finished his meager meal, the lawyer retrieves the dishes and puts them in the sink.  
“What do you plan to do with that guy?” he asks.  
The transvestite sighs, “There is nothing I can do. He comes to the bar from time to time, but not enough to be a regular and like with most other costumer I’ll bet he uses an alias. I can only alert the security guys and hope it gets better without getting worst.”   
Seii walks back to the table; this time he kneels behind Ranka, his hands reaching up to massage the okama’s tense shoulders, kneading the muscles gently.   
“You should be accompanied at all times Rioyi. I can pick you up at the bar for a few nights, bring you home with me, seeing you accompanied might discourage the stalker,” Seii suggests pressing his lips to the base of Ranka’s neck, he lets his hands slide down to wrap his arms around the slim waist.   
Ranka lets himself relax against the lawyer. Since Kotoko’s death, Seii and he had become very close, in more ways than one. The man had become quite taken with the okama and they had evolved into fuck-buddies according to Ranka, though Seii preferred the term friends with benefits, hence the reason why Ranka has the keys to man’s apartment.   
“I’ve missed you Rioyi,” Seii whispers in Ranka’s ear. Licking the curved shell softly, the large hands slide under the loose shirt to caress a flat stomach making the younger man shiver.  
“Ranka,” the okama corrects.   
The lawyer chuckles “Of course, come to bed Ranka,” he concedes, using the stage name the transvestite preferred to be called by whenever they engaged in sex. As if to save Rioyi only for Kotoko and her memory. 

It’s almost noon when Ranka wakes up feeling content and warm.  
'This is not my room,' is his first thought. As he tries to awaken his groggy mind he becomes aware of the muscular chest spooning his back, the heavy but comforting arm draped over his waist, the powerful thick thigh squeezed teasingly between his own and the hot, soft breath tickling his neck.   
'Seiichiro,' his mind concludes as he remembers why he had come to the man’s house. Ranka allows himself a moment to feel safe and cared for. He basks in the companionship for a long moment until a misplaced but relentless feeling of guilt starts to gnaw at him. Slowly he extricates himself from his cuddly bed partner, careful not to wake him; they had a very late night verging in early morning and after imposing on the lawyer the least he can do is let him rest. In the meantime he will clean up, text Haruhi to let her know he’d be home by the time she returned from school, then make some coffee and maybe a late breakfast as thanks for Seii.   
He is distracted at the stove when a pair of strong arms wrap around him, the gesture so familiar by now that he lets himself fall back in Seiichiro’s embrace.   
“Hmm, it smells good,” the older man says nuzzling the okama’s neck.  
“Me or the breakfast?” Ranka inquires with a chuckle.  
“Well I would say you, but flattery won’t get me anywhere and it won’t get you back into my bed, so I’m gonna say food,”   
“Well thanks for the honesty and good morning to you too,” the younger man says in mock irritation and a playful swat with the spatula.   
Seii laughs and pulls away from the redhead to serve himself some coffee.

After eating, Ranka prepares to go home.   
“Are you sure you are alright?” Seii asks concern.   
“I am, thanks for everything Seiichiro,” he assures the lawyer and gives him a warm smile when the older man helps him with his coat.   
“It’s my pleasure Rioyi. You should drop by more often, you are always welcome in my home, and in my bed Ranka,” Seii says sincerely handing the okama his purse.   
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he gives Seii an affectionate peck on the cheek, as he walks out he throws a wink “Ciao.”


	3. Gender Biased

It’s 3 pm and the Host Club is open for business.   
“Haruhi is everything alright? You seem rather distracted today,” Kyoya inquires. He has noticed the girl seems preoccupied, no, worried is more accurate.   
Haruhi looks up in surprise. How long had he been standing there, for how long has he been observing her? As normal as it is when it comes to the bespectacled teen, it still unnerves her. Of all the boys in the club The Shadow King is by far the most observant and also the one she least expects to ask about her wellbeing. Then it occurs to her.   
“You are just worried my being distracted will affect the club ratings,” she says, it’s not a question, nor an accusation; she just calls them as she sees them.   
Kyoya keeps his face neutral but in his mind he frowns. That is not the reason he asked, he had actually been concerned about her, only god knows why. Now he is starting the question his judgment in trying to comfort her. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but an impulse, he had asked her before even registering what or why he was doing it. He decides to play it easy.   
“It is part of my responsibilities to make sure the hosts are fit to attend to our customers. The Host’s wellbeing is crucial, for it reflects directly on the service said host imparts,” he explains coolly.   
“It figures,” she mumbles under her breath.   
This time Kyoya does frown. “Just remember Haruhi you are no longer obligated to be here by dept.”  
Haruhi’s eyes widen in surprise.   
“If you have more pressing or personal matters to attend to you are free to leave whenever you’d like, it’s not like you’ll be punished for skipping club hours. If you require any assistance, let me or one of the other members know. All of us are more than willing to help. Now if you excuse me.” With that Kyoya walks away.   
Haruhi stands perplexed, had she just been spoken to kindly and offered help by Kyoya-sempai without having to pay? She watches him make a circuit around the room to make sure everything is going well, pausing to chastise first the twins and then Tamaki; before sitting at a small table with his laptop, black notebook , a calculator and what looks like a stack of bills. The cross-dresser girl sighs; he had been polite and seemed genuinely concerned, the least she can do is talk to him.   
Kyoya can’t explain why he feels irritated by her comments. It is the image he has forged around himself. Not even the member of the club could tell otherwise, not even Tamaki, who claims to know him and saw through him when they first met. Still Haruhi is different she has seen the truth, and called it to his face more than once, so why would she think he is being insincere. Hadn’t it been put out in the open at the Ouran Fair that they are a family of sorts; that they are closer to each other more than any of them cares to admit. He is distracted from this line of thought as the would-be-boy sits across from him. Kyoya had expected her to either leave or to go to Tamaki or maybe the twins, certainly he hadn’t thought she’d take his offer and come to him. The vice-president closes his laptop and puts down his pen, giving Haruhi his undivided attention.   
“I’m sorry for being so rude, Kyoya-sempai.”  
“Don’t worry about it, there was no disrespect intended,” he says politely without losing a beat.   
“The truth is I’m worried about my dad,” she admits answering his first question.  
“Is he ill?” he asks, for some reason it worries him, he really likes the eccentric man.  
“No, he… being an Okama some of the customers get a little infatuated with him, it’s usually harmless lavishing. But last night a drunken guy got too pushy, dad got him thrown out. It seems he waited outside for dad to clock out; dad felt he was being followed so instead of coming home he went to an old friend’s house. It turned out he was being followed by the same guy,” she explains, so many emotions coloring her tone.   
Kyoya listens, the more Haruhi tells him the more he dislikes the situation.  
“It’s not the first time it happens, most times the guys stop once they are sober, and dad laughs it off as being a beautiful woman.”  
“But not this time,” he concludes.  
She nods in affirmative to his observation. “Last night when Mr. Seiichiro called to tell me what happened, he said dad was really shaken; that man scared my dad to tears,” she says close to tears herself.   
Kyoya is not exactly surprised by the fact that he feels almost as upset as Haruhi. “What actions is your father planning on taking?”  
“I dunno, I haven’t seen him yet. He spent the night at Mr. Seiichiro’s.”  
“I see, it is a serious matter. Your father needs to be careful; one never knows what that kind of obsession can make a man do.” That makes her more alarmed, it is not his intention but mere facts. “As it is I can offer your father an escort, two or three men from the Ootori police to guard him during his shift and a car to take your father to and from work,” he offers.   
“I guess that is an idea, but I have to ask dad what he wants to do. But thanks for the offer sempai and thanks for your concern, it’s very kind of you.”  
“It’s really no problem,” he says suppressing both a smile and a blush at her sincere praise.   
The rest of the afternoon passes quietly, as quiet as it can be inside the music room three. As Haruhi gathers her bag to leave Kyoya approaches her again.  
“Haruhi, please remember my offer, let me know if your father agrees and I’ll send him an escort right away.”  
“I will, thank you again Kyoya-sempai.” She bows politely and hurries home to her father. 

Ranka arrives home a little after three. The moment he closes the door an uneasy feeling at being alone settles over him. He glances at the clock; Haruhi is in the middle of club time and would be arriving home soon. The okama decides he is going to cook dinner, it would distract him and he could spend some time with his daughter before he has to leave for work. He moves with ease in his little kitchen, glancing nervously at either the clock or the door every so often; as he cooks rice, dices beef and chops vegetables. A key hits the lock and Ranka holds his breath. A second later Haruhi bursts through the door looking anxiously around.   
“Dad!” she calls even before entering the apartment properly, a swift scan of the room and she sees her father standing by the stove. One look at him and she can see the fear and anxiousness mix with relief at seeing her. “Oh Dad!” Haruhi lets her bag fall to the floor and hurries to hug her father.  
Ranka hugs her furiously, burying his face in her hair he indulges in the rare display of affection on Haruhi’s part. “Welcome home Haruhi,” his throat tightens as he fights emerging tears. He will not cry in front of her, he will not worry her more than he already has.   
“Dad, are you okay…?” she started, but Ranka waves her off.  
“Yes, yes of curse sweetie. Now why don’t you go and change while I finish cooking. We can have dinner before I leave for my shift,” he says cheerfully not giving Haruhi the chance to ask about the last night’s incident.   
They had dinner with Ranka rambling cheerfully none stop. Then he sent Haruhi to do her homework while he gets ready for work. 

Haruhi knows what her father is doing. He tries to pretend he is okay to prevent her from worrying, but it is too late for that she is worried more than he can imagine and avoiding the subject won’t solve anything. With her mind set the girl goes to her father’s room and waits for him to come out of the shower. While she waits she looks around the room. It is the smallest room in the apartment. When Haruhi started to grow into a young lady Ranka moved out from what had been his and her mom’s room into Haruhi’s and vice versa, claiming that a young woman needs her space and privacy.   
“Haruhi?”   
She turns around to face her dad and is somewhat surprised at the unusual image. Ranka stands at the door way a towel wrapped around his waist, another towel hanging from his shoulders absorbing the dampness of his wet hair, no makeup on his face. All in all he looks like a man, a very long haired man albeit, and Haruhi wonders when she had stopped thinking about her father as a man.   
“Is there something wrong Haruhi?” he asks in a gentle fatherly tone.   
“Dad, are you sure you should be going to work tonight?” she asks in turn.  
He stares at her taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly. “It will be fine, besides I need to alert the other ‘girls’,” he explains dismissively. “So don’t you worry. Now, I really need to get ready,” he hints for her to leave so he can get dress.   
“I’m not done with what I have to say dad. You can get ready while you listen,” she states seriously.  
“What?! But… Haruhi I’m…I,” he gestures to the towel around his waist indicating he is naked under it.   
“You used to bathe with mom and I all the time,” she says matter-of-factly. She doesn't understand why he hesitates; before her mother died they used to go to public coed bath houses. They even bathed together in the tiny tub in their apartment, all three of them squeezed in the hot water. Those good times stopped soon after her death. Just like Haruhi had stopped eating breakfast, her dad stopped bathing and changing in front of her; but unlike her, who started to eat in the mornings again, Ranka never bathed with her again.   
With a sigh Ranka relents. “Alright I’m listening,” he says walking to a chest of drawers, he starts rummaging in his underwear drawer.   
Haruhi is amazed at the wide variety; she had never seen so many different types of panties.   
“Dad I spoke with Kyoya-sempai at the club and he offered to give you an escort for when you go to work,” she informs.  
Ranka looks surprised. “Why would he do that? There is no way I can afford that kind of service,” he says finally picking a pair of black laced boy-shorts. He pulls them on under the towel, once they are secure in place, only then he removes the towel from his hips.  
Haruhi rolls her eyes the under garment is completely see-through, he might as well be naked.   
“He didn't said anything about paying dad,” she adds, watching him walk to the full-length mirror to tuck his genital back properly and she wanders briefly if it’s painful, at the very least it must be uncomfortable.   
“Haruhi you know, with him, it goes without saying. Kyoya-kun doesn't do anything without personal gain.” He picks a pair of black laced bras and fastens them on expertly then stuffing the empty cup with fake silicon breasts.   
“I thought the same, but when he offered to escort you he seemed genuinely concerned,” the brunette explains. Her father looks puzzled at that. “He seems to have change after the festival,” she adds mostly to herself. “I think you should take his offer, at least for a few nights to be safe.”   
The okama moves to his closet and picks out his outfit for tonight, a knee length, tight fighting, spaghetti-strapped black dress. He returns to the drawers and digs out a pair of thigh high black stockings.   
“I know you are worried Haruhi,” he quickly pull up the stockings. “But I’ll be fine,” he puts on his dress. “I am a man after all I can take care of myself,” he adds with a wink as he checks his appearance in the tall mirror.   
The comment throws Haruhi off; and not because of the paradox of the situation of hearing such words coming from a man posing very convincingly as a woman. Is her concern for him based on the fact that he appears like a woman? Can this kind of concern be gender biased? It reminds her of that time at the beach, Tamaki had been furious at her for taking on those guys by herself. The logic of that situation still eludes her. Is it alright for her father to face a possible attack; is it alright to assume he will not be harm in a confrontation just because he is a man? She doesn't think it is right but what else can she do? She has expressed her concerns and opinion but it’s ultimately her dad’s choice what to do.   
She sighs, “Alright, have it your way, but please be careful dad.”  
The worry is evident in her voice and when Ranka looks at her, the expression in his daughter’s face tugs at his heart.  
“I will be sweetheart I promise. Try not to worry too much, that is my job as a parent,” he says warmly.  
He doesn't have the time to dry his hair so he picks it up in a stylish ponytail; he quickly and expertly applies his makeup, he eyes his looks critically in the mirror and deems himself acceptable and gathers his purse, coat, cellphone and keys.  
“Don’t stay up too late and remember to lock up. I love you Haruhi,” and with that he is out leaving a very worried daughter.   
Haruhi locks the door behind him and slowly makes her way to the living\dining area, she knees before her mother’s memorial altar, she lights a new incense stick and puts her hands together in prayer.   
“Please take care of him mom.”


	4. Back-Alley Brawl

Kyoya can’t figure out why for the life of him, he is out so late in a school night. Oh yeah, his father had sent him out to dinner with one of his colleague’s family to meet their daughter. He couldn’t believe it when his father had told him about it. Kyoya knows what he is trying to do and he isn’t happy about it. He isn’t even entertaining the idea of marriage at this time, if ever, and his father is looking for suitable prospects. He decided to play along tonight, but after dinner he is regretting it profusely. The girl-assisting to St. Lobelias- had clung to him like a leech. Her parents had listed and bragged about every trivial quality or achievement of the girl –that included but weren’t limited to her minor role in the Zuka club, to Kyoya’s horror. It had reminded him of an infomercial, and he could’ve sworn the family son was hitting on him! Dinner dragged on as they never cease to talk and then insisted Kyoya accompanied them to a private concert of a family friend who was a promising raising pianist. The music had been boring and conventional and nowhere near to Tamaki’s skill levels, the event had only serve to remind the third son of how much he likes listening to the blond play the piano, and that if Tamaki never inherited his family company he surely has a bright future as a piano man. That is how he has ended out in the city at 1:30 in the morning. 

The limousine cruises through the streets, as it stops at a red light Kyoya notices a scene developing at a street corner. A guy manhandles what is for sure a reluctant prostitute. The brunette frowns; regardless of the woman’s social station the man has no rights to force himself upon her if she is not interested. Then he remembered what Haruhi had told him about her father being harassed by a drunken customer. The girl hadn’t called to accept the offer of an escort, he checks his cellphone, but there are no calls or messages. It’s way too late to ring Haruhi and ask her what her father had said. If Haruhi didn’t call it is obvious Ranka has declined the offer. Maybe the Okama has taken a few nights off to avoid the stalker. But the thought still bugs Kyoya, he absently observes the drama in the sidewalk as the limo starts to move. He smiles, a small group of street workers has crawled out of the woodwork; the tables have turned and the offender is chased away by a pack of fierce ladies of the night. The teen admires their protectiveness of each other, their loyalty. Their example strikes a chord within him and Kyoya directs the driver through the city streets, he is out anyway, it won’t hurt to make sure, he’ll just pass by, just a little detour. 

The moment he arrived at work Ranka let the manager and bouncers know of the previous night occurrence and all the other okamas are on alert too. The tranny submerged himself in his work and soon the matter was pushed to the back of his mind. Until the manager approaches him before his shift is over to persuade the young okama to go home earlier, a change in his routine hopefully would help him avoid the stalker if he was still on the prowl. Surely the offender wouldn’t be waiting for him two hour prior to the end of his shift. Ranka reluctantly clocks out and leaves through the cargo door that opens to the alley next to the bar. The only thing he notices to be out of place is the slick black limousine parked across the street. 

“It looks like we have some high up customers tonight,” he comments to himself, shrugging he walks up to the alley’s exist. He is almost to the sidewalk when he sees a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. His eyes widen in terror, a gasp stuck in his throat as he saw the stalker grabbing for him. The okama is too shock to react, it isn’t until the man takes hold of him that Ranka tries to run. The man has a firm grip on him, the transvestite shrugs of his coat in hopes to escape and leave the man with a handful of clothes, but he only took a few steps before the attacker was upon him again. The man grabs him from behind pinning his arms to his sides; Ranka struggles fiercely, he kicks hitting the man’s shin with his heels. The man curses in pain and anger slamming the redhead against the alley wall, he slaps the struggling would-be-woman hard enough to send him to the floor. Stars explode before his eyes and his ears ring with the force of the blow. He screws his eyes shot as the man reaches for him. 

Kyoya sits in the limo parked in front of okama bar. It’s been about fifteen minutes and he hasn’t seen the okama he is looking for, his fingers drum an anxious rhythm on his thigh. He should be going home, it is way too late and there is school tomorrow, or should he say in a few hours today, but something keeps him here an uneasy feeling and protectiveness he has only associated before with the Host Club members. He should’ve called the okama himself and insist until the harassed man accepted the escort. Kyoya sighs, he might as well go home, Ranka is probably safe and sound in his own home.   
“Let’s go,” the teen instructs the driver, the servant had been strongly suggesting it since before they arrived at the bar. As the limousine start to move he glances one last time across the street, when movement in the dark alley beside it drew his attention.   
“Damn!” Kyoya curses and throws himself out of the slowly moving vehicle.   
“Sir!?” he hears the driver call after him confused and alarmed, the limo’s breaks screeching to a halt. He is lucky there is no traffic at this ungodly hour as he darts across the street. The teen reaches the mouth of the alley to see a man push Ranka to a wall and strike him across the face, the blow throwing the okama to the floor with a pained yelp. Kyoya’s blood boils and without thinking he tackles the assaulter. 

The hands reaching for Ranka never made a grasp, he hears some grunting and cursing and the frightened man opens his eyes to see a slight figure barrel against his attacker. As the two figures scuffle he thinks his rescuer looks familiar. 

“Get back inside!” Kyoya yells glancing back at the stunned okama. The man takes the opportunity and swings at the teen, knuckles connecting with the cheekbone.   
A pair of glasses fly off and land with a clatter next to Ranka. That is when the tranny recognizes his savior, but before he can properly register it; his body is obeying the boy’s order. He doesn’t know how but he clambers to his feet and runs back into the bar. 

The man has backed Kyoya against the wall. A vicious punch to the gut leaves him gasping for air. Kyoya has never fought in his life but has a good idea on how to retaliate. He takes a right jab at the man’s jaw, but Kyoya’s frame is slight and he is winded, his hit doesn’t pack enough strength to cause any damage to the older and obviously stronger man. The man sidesteps the left the teen tries to his side and retaliates with a solid hook to the kidneys. The boy’s legs give out under him and a kick to the diaphragm sends him careening back, his head colliding painfully with the wall. 

A shout comes from the alley’s entrance, his driver seeming to finally catch up. At the end of the alley a door bangs open, announcing help arriving from within the bar. The stalker realizing he is outnumbered runs, shoving the driver out of the way he escapes out to the street and out of sight. 

With the attacker gone Kyoya slumps sliding sideways, with his arms wrapped around his middle he gasps trying to regain his breath. The driver is at his side now, getting a hold of his arm he tries to get the boy up off the dirty floor and out of the dark alley. With every desperate tug Kyoya’s chest and lower back explode with pain.  
“Fuck!” he hisses through gritted teeth, with a weak shaking hand he tries to wave the fretting man away. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Ranka’s near shriek makes Kyoya’s head pound harder. He tries to focus on the face of the okama kneeling in front of him, but without his glasses it’s just a blur of peach surrounded by auburn. 

“You are welcome,” he wheezes. 

“Ranka, how do we handle this?” one of the bouncers asks.

“I will personally take care of the matter,” Kyoya responds for Ranka, steading himself he sits up, suppressing his hard breathing and trying his best not to wince in pain. 

“Excuse me kid but this is serious,” says the owner with a heavy frown. “I’ll call the police, Ranka come wait inside, you too kid the police will want your statement. You can call your parents while we wait.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Kyoya insists climbing to his feet; one hand on the wall for support, the other still held over his chest protectively. “I will see to it that that man stays away from your establishment and its personnel.” 

“No offence kid, you might have saved Ranka but you got your skinny ass handed to you in the process, what can you do to anyone?” chimes in one tall okama as if stating the obvious. His Osaka accent thick with sarcasm, contradict his action of handing Kyoya his glasses. 

The teen accepts his eyewear and slides them in place; one lens is cracked. With his glass shield back in place, he stands straight and dignified. “I am no kid ma’am. I am Kyoya Ootori, third son of the Ootori group and as such I can and will destroy that man’s life,” the teen’s face is hard, his eyes cold and his voice drips with venom. 

Everyone present feels a chill run up their spines, as the Ootori boy promises hell to anyone who dares cross him. 

Kyoya schools his features; he sees Ranka’s coat and purse laying on the floor, forgotten during the attack. The bespectacled boy picks them up and frowns at the wet and dirty garments. He shrugs his suit coat off and drapes it over the okama’s shoulders it’s just as dirty but it retains his own body heat and it’s not soaking wet. 

“Now I will escort your colleague safely home. I will call you during more suitable business hours to gather any information you may have about the man in question. Goodnight and my apologies for the disturbance,” he said with a curt nod. He places a hand at the small of the older man’s back and herds him across the street to the limo.

“Master Kyoya, that was dangerous, are you hurt? I’ll take you to your father’s hospital,” the driver says as he follows the third son.

“I don’t need a doctor,” 

“But sir…” 

“I don’t need you to fuss and nag, I need you to drive,” he says sharply. “First I want to take Mr. Fujioka home,” the driver makes a double take at Ranka only now realizing the lady is a transvestite. He manages not to stare too obviously and opens the door for them. 

“Ryoji!” a deep voice calls behind them, a hand grabs Ranka’s arm and pulls him back and around.

Kyoya reacts quickly to Ranka’s startled gasp, yanking the hand off of the okama. “Don’t touch him!” he growls menacingly only to find himself being grabbed by the front of his shirt and slammed against the side of the vehicle. He groans through his teeth in pain, his hand wraps around the wrist of the man standing over him, his nails digging into the skin. 

“Seiichiro, don’t!” Ranka calls urgently, pulling on the raised fist aimed at the teen’s face. 

Seii let’s go reluctantly as he find himself with an armful of shaking okama. His arms instantly circle the slighter man protectively all the while eyeing the panting young man warily. 

Kyoya can’t help but to notice the redhead sighing with relief at this man’s soothing touch. 

“Shh, you are alright, I’m here you are safe,” the lawyer coos gently. “Want to tell me what happened?” he inquires lifting Rankas’s chin to peer at his face. 

“That guy from last night, he came back and he tried…” he tries to explain, but gets choked up, he doesn’t even want to think about what the man wanted to try to do to him. He is shaken and scared enough without going into what might have happened.

“Mr. Fujioka was assaulted by the stalker that harassed him last night,” Kyoya supplies. “If you excuse us Mr. Fujioka has had a stressful night, and it be best if he goes home and rests,” he adds tersely. 

“And who the hell are you?” Seiichiro asks in a barely civil tone.

“He is one of Haruhi’s friends, he scared that man away and he was about to take me home when you arrived,” Ranka answers catching up to the mounting tension between the two males. 

“Well thanks, but I can take it from here; Ryoji will be spending the night at mines.”

“I promised his co-workers I’d take him home safely and that is what I intent to do,” Kyoya insists. 

“Isn’t it way past your bed time, kiddo. I’ll personally walk him home in the morning,” Seiichiro jabs; the teen’s superior attitude is annoying him. 

“No offence, but I do not know you and I don’t trust your intentions. I’m not about to leave him alone with you,” the young man counters.

“Nor I with you, what is a boy doing out at this hour in a school night hanging outside an okama bar? Your intentions are just as questionable,” Seii shot back with the logic born from years in court rooms. 

“Stop both of you,” Ranka sighs exasperated. “I’m flattered you’re fighting over lil o’l me, but I’m more than enough for the both of you,” he jokes trying to defuse the tension. 

He sighs as they continue to glare at each other. “Kyoya, I’d appreciated if you could drop us at Seiichiro’s place, I’d be alright there. I just don’t want Haruhi to see me like this,” the okama pleads making his decision known to the arguing men. 

“As you wish,” the brunette boy relents reluctantly; he gestures for them to get into the limo conceding to the tranny’s judgment. 

Seiichiro gives his address to the anxious driver, and they pile in to the black limousine. 

Kyoya settles gingerly on the back-sit across from Ranka and Seii. He groans one arm hugs his torso, the other hand reaches to feel the growing lump at the back of his head. He closes his eyes and remains unmoving, one arm around his middle the other cushioning his head as he takes small shallow breaths. 

“Are you hurt?” Ranka asks growing more concerned when he receives no answer. 

“Don’t worry about him, he is just sulking, it’s called teenage angst” the older man says flippantly. 

Kyoya gives the man a one eyed glare but decides it’s not worth the effort and shrugs off the comment. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m unhurt only a little sore. I’m not used to being a punching bag’s substitute. But thank you for your concern. How about yourself? He hit you pretty hard,” he diverts politely and inquires about the okama instead.

“What? Let me see,” Seii jumps in to action turning on the overhead dome light. He cups Ranka’s face in one large hand and gingerly prods the darkening bruise left by the harsh slap. 

Kyoya smirks having successfully diverted the adult’s attention off himself. “There are hand towels and ice in the mini bar,” he offers as means of a first aids kit. He keeps his eyes closed, the sight of the two men’s –after all a cross-dresser is still a man- affections-he can’t deny there is a lot of it between them- sitting across from him makes his chest ache a little deeper than the bruising. He hears the sounds of shuffling, tinkering and the clinking of ice cubes shifting. A pause and Ranka gasps softly, at what he guesses is the contact of cold ice on his face. A little mumbling some more shuffling about and then his glasses are slid off their perch on his nose and rough cold cloth is pressed to his cheekbone. The teen winces and his eyes snap open. The lawyer is crouching in the floor well between the sits holding the improvised ice pack to his face. 

“By the looks of it you need it more,” Seii offers by way of explanation. 

The third son takes the improvised ice pack and places it on the lump at the back of his head. “Thanks,” he says softly, putting his glasses back on. 

Seiichiro slides back to sit next to Ranka. Now with the lights on he can see the extent of the damage clearly. Ranka looks a little worse for wear, strands of his red hair hang about his face in disarray, fallen from the now loose ponytail. His makeup is smudged and run downed; there is a dark bruise on his left cheek, though nothing serious, it makes Kyoya’s stomach coil with anger. The younger man’s coat hangs loosely around his shoulders a little on the short side for the older transvestite. The palm of his right hand and his right knee are a little shafted, the black stoking torn around it, most likely from the fall to the pavement when he was slapped. There is a fine tremor to his frame and his hands wring anxiously on his lap. It’s all to be expected after that little skirmish, what he doesn’t expect is the look the okama is giving him, full of concern and guilt. And Kyoya turns to look his reflection on the window. 

He gasps, he looks a mess. His hair is in disarray, his glasses cracked and a little askew. The ugly purpling on his face won’t turn in to a full shiner but enough vessels are burst to almost give him a proper black eye. His shirt and tie are crumpled and filthy. And by the way his chest and lower back are throbbing he won’t look any better under the ruined clothes. Now he realizes Ranka’s gasp hadn’t been from the ice pack touching his bruise, but from the pitiful state Kyoya is in. 

“So, for what I can gather that stalker bastard jumped Rioyi in the alley and you dashed into the fray, right?” he asks conversationally breaking the awkward silence.   
Kyoya recognizes the tactic of a lawyer fishing for something and says nothing, Ranka simply nods. 

“Not that I’m not grateful, but what were you doing there?” the more mature man presses again. 

“Why didn’t you accept my escort offer?” Kyoya asks Ranka instead, choosing to ignore the oldest man for now. 

“I honestly didn’t think it necessary. I thought that by tonight the guy would be sober and forgotten about the whole thing. Besides I can’t afford an Ootori escort,” Ranka says plainly. 

“I never meant to charge you for it, I offered it as a favor for a friend,” Kyoya replies frowning. His money groveling, penny pincher, greedy avaricious facade had influence the way the transvestite thought of him and how wouldn’t it; it is the way that even his closest friends see him. That somehow hurts and upsets him more than the beating in the alley. 

“I was out late in some business socializing at my father’s insistence. Haruhi didn’t call to tell me what you thought of my offer and I had an uneasy feeling that urged me to pass by, I was out anyways and it would’ve eased my mind,” Kyoya says answering Seii’s question to distract his mind from the disappointed sadness that has taken hold of him all of a sudden. 

“What were you doing there Seii?” Ranka asks of the lawyer in turn. 

The man looks sheepish, “I called Haruhi to check on you, and she told me you had gone to work. She was worried so I offered to pick you up and take you home with me to give her some peace of mind,” he explains. 

Ranka frowns disapprovingly at Seiichiro using Haruhi to keep tabs on him but before the can call the man on it; they arrive at the man’s apartment complex. 

“Thank you Kyoya,” Ranka says formally with a deep bow, his tone grateful and apologetic. He shrugs the boy’s coat off and hands it back to him before sliding out of the limo. The driver, holding the door open for them, seems relieved to be rid of him and Seiichiro.

The oldest man pauses and gives the teen an apprising look that settles into something akin to mild respect. They shake hands briefly.

“Thanks kid,” Seii manages to say it without too much condescension. 

“Look after him,” Kyoya says and if there is a slight threat to his tone the older man lets it slide. 

As the limousine drives away they both have a feeling it’s not the last time they will cross paths and collide where the redheaded okama is concern.


	5. Battered Prides

In Seiichiro’s apartment the lawyer tents to the okama. Ranka sits atop the low table holding a cold compress against his left cheek. His torn stockings lay on the floor discarded; Seii sits on the tatami cleaning the scraped knee and palm. Ranka winces as the antiseptic soaked cotton is pressed to the cut. 

“Sorry” Seii says apologetically. 

The kettle whistles as the water reaches a boil, the sudden screech startles Ranka and he curses in embarrassment and annoyance. 

The older man pats his thigh and stands going to the stove, he prepares the tea quietly, giving the tranny some space. He has watched the okama’s mood change from fright, to frustration, to anger in the brief span of time since they arrived to the apartment. 

“It’s alright Rioyi,” he says handing the younger man a mug of steaming tea. It smells of chamomile, it will calm him down and help him sleep.

“It’s not alright!” Ranka snaps, the attack rattled him and he is angry at himself for allowing it. “I was rescued by a seventeen-years- old. Like some damsel in distress.” 

“You do play the part well, and I’ve got to admit the kid has balls to charge in like that,” the lawyer comments.

“Damn it I have a pair of balls too!” he exclaims in an outrage. 

“Though yours are more of a decoration,” Seii tries to joke.

Ranka glares daggers at him.

“I’m only kidding,” he holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Come on don’t be so harsh on yourself. There is nothing wrong with your being so affected. Your fear has nothing to do with your wearing a dress,” he says as he sits on the floor in front of Ranka again “It is fear for your safety, and your daughter’s. You did what every parent’s instincts tell them to do and you drove the danger onto yourself and away from your young. I think you did admirably and I’m flattered you feel safe with me,” his hand reaches to stroke a strand of loose auburn hair affectionately. 

Though partially true, Ranka feels there is a part the lawyer is missing, a very important part that makes the okama react this way to being harassed and attacked so intimately. But he is too exhausted to try to explain it and Seii wouldn’t understand it anyway. 

“It’s been a hard night, you are all wound up, let’s go to bed,” Seii says placing a soft kiss on the inside of the tranny’s knee. 

“Seii I… tonight I can’t,” Ranka stammers too many emotions crowding him at once to think or talk straight. He can’t bed Seiichiro tonight; he feels too raw, too exposed and vulnerable. True the feelings are not directed to the lawyer and it makes him ashamed that he can’t control them, that the feeling of safety the older man provides is not enough to fight his lingering fear. 

“I wasn’t implying that Ranka,” he says apparently unfazed by the okama’s behavior. “Just laying down and sleeping. I’ll pull out the spare futon if sharing mine makes you uncomfortable,” he adds understandingly. 

Ranka gives him a small watery smile, relieved and ashamed he had thought Seii would be insensible to his state of mind and ask for sex, he really needs to pull himself together and remember it is Seiichiro the man before him. 

“Sharing is fine,” he finally concedes. While they prepare for bed, Ranka wonders how Kyoya is doing. He can’t explain the urge to call him; not only to thank him, but to make sure he is alright. But the hour is too late and he has imposed on the boy too much for one night. 

Once alone in the limo Kyoya allows the pain to wash over him, with a groan he curls in on himself, his forehead resting on his knees, his arms wound tightly around his middle. With every curb and pothole the throbbing pain lets itself known. He allows himself to succumb, letting the whimpers he has been withholding escape pass his lips. The teen remains like this in a slight, pain induced haze; coming to himself when the limo jolts to an abrupt halt upsetting his already sore kidney making him hiss through gritted teeth. By God it hurts! The driver opens the door, his anxious hands seeking to help the boy out of the vehicle. Kyoya allows the man to fuss over him, if only for the servant’s peace of mind, until they reach the front door that is. 

“I can go on my own from here. You are not to speak about this to anyone, especially not my father. Go rest, but have the car ready for school as usual. You can take the rest of the day off after that, I’ll catch a ride home with Tamaki after school,” the teen closes the door before the driver can form any protest. 

He steps into the dark silent house, for once grateful that it is empty. His father is out of the country in a business trip, the eldest son along with him. The second son is cramming for exams in a study group at a friend’s house and Fuyumi is spending the week at her fiancés summer villa. No awkward questions, no half-assed explanations and lies to give; no one to criticize or judge neither his appearance nor his actions. Just himself and the pain, and the bruises, and the jealousy caused by Ranka’s closeness to that Seiichiro, and the worry that this guy won’t be able to protect the okama. 

So Kyoya takes the matter in his own hands. He picks up his phone and calls the commanding officer of the Ootory’s private police. He doesn’t care it is pass two in the morning, he doesn’t care the man is sleeping, he doesn’t care that most of the unit is on leave nor that the rest of them is otherwise engaged. He wants this dealt with, and he wants it dealt with now; and in a few minutes he has raised hell in his family’s private police headquarters. He explains the situation and what he wants to be done about it. To his credit the officer takes the mission without objection, and even inputs his opinion on what he believes would be the better tactical approach, making a detailed, laid out plan of action.   
Satisfied that things are in motion, Kyoya moves to the next task of importance, his injured state. He gingerly makes his way to his room and into the en-suite. Turning on the light he is startled by the image that greets him in the huge mirror over the sink. He almost doesn’t recognize his own reflection. The teen takes in his appearance, always comb hair is disheveled, his glasses cracked, a dark bruise is blossoming on his temple making part of his eye and cheek swollen up, well not much to do about that but a pack of ice. His clothes are in total disarray, stained and wet with alley filth. He loathes to think of all the things that it may be and decides to dispose of it, and absently wonders if burning it would seem too drastic? 

He starts running a bath, adjusting the tab until the tub is filling up with steaming hot water. 

After looking at his face, Kyoya dreads what the rest of him most look like. He yanks off the askew tie and unbuttons the ruined dress shirt. As he peals the fabric off his shoulders an assortment of bruises is reveled. There is one blossoming on his side just over the floating ribs; he glares at the one adorning his chest distinctly shaped like a shoe. The bruising is bone deep, the dark purple a startling contrast with his stark pale skin. He turns around and twists to look over his shoulder. The dark bruise on his lower back looks alarmingly large and he hopes his kidney is not hemorrhaging too much, that will have him pissing blood for a few days, no doubt. 

With a sigh he removes the rest of his clothes; he tosses his broken glasses on to the sink counter carelessly and takes a quick shower to remove the sweat and grime.   
By the time he is out the stall the tub has filled up and he proceeds to soak in it. He groans appreciatively as he sinks in the hot water, soothing and relaxing his aching body.   
His thoughts wander to Ranka, to the frightened big eyes, the tremble of his body, the quiver in his voice, all of it caused by that despicable man. He shivers with the thought of what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there, if Haruhi hadn’t confided in him. It causes a wave of fear and anger surge through him, a protective urge rises in his heart. Kyoya swears he is going to find out who is that man and there is going to be hell to pay, upon his family name he will make sure of it. 

He wonders how Ranka is doing, how is he coping? He considers calling to make sure he is alright, that his friend is taking good care of him; but decides against it, it’s way too late for phone calls and he doesn’t want to disrupt the okama if he happened to find some sleep tonight. He closes his tiered eyes and before he knows it he zones out. 

Kyoya wakes up with a start, a quick glance at the clock on the wall and he curses. He had fallen asleep a few hours, the water has gone cold and it’s almost time to get ready for school. He struggles to climb out of the tub, his limbs numb and trembling with cold. Whatever good the bath had done was for naught, he is again aching and stiff from lying on the hard porcelain tub without moving for hours. Luckily the hit to the head didn’t give him a concussion and he didn’t drown in his sleep. He needs to warm up and goes into the shower stall, turning the hot tab on full, the spray of steaming water beats down on him, working out the chill. 

The third son faces the mirror again; he doesn’t need his glasses to make out the blurry image before him more clearly. His reflection shows little improvement. He is now clean, but apart from the obvious bruises, there are dark circles under his eyes, their sharp gleam dulled with tiredness. 

The teen rummage through the medicine cabinet and takes the strongest pain killers he can find. He knows they’ll cause drowsiness, but he needs their numbing effect to move around with some semblance of the grace he normally possesses. 

With one final glare at his poor countenance, he sets to perform his morning routine, if only at a more sluggish pace. 

As Haruhi prepares for school she calls her dad, to check on him. Mr. Seiichiro is the one who answers the phone. He tells her there was a situation with the stalker last night, but he doesn’t explain in much detail. He only says there was a bit of a scuffle and for her to thank her ‘rich bitch’ friend. Upon inquiring who he meant, the lawyer described the friend as dark, stuck-up, with cold demeanor and a killer glare. The image of the Shadow King sprang to her mind. 

“Kyoya Ootori-sempai?” she asks.

“Yeah I think that’s what Rioyi called him. We didn’t introduce properly. The boy has more attitude than I like, but he helped out your dad, and he looked worst for ware, though he tried hard to hide it,” he explains. 

Seiichiro assured her Ranka was well and that he was asleep and he didn’t want to wake him. Haruhi agreed to let her dad rest, though she didn’t feel any less worried, and left for school intent on finding out what had happened from Kyoya-sempai. 

At the academy Kyoya curves all questions about the state of his usually immaculate appearance with a crisp: ‘It was an accident,’ and a curt but final: ‘I am fine, Thank you.’ Any lingering stares are easily dealt-with with a threatening glare. Of course Tamaki isn’t as easily deflected and takes quite a lot of effort to stop his worried fussing, he spent the day giving worried glances and ‘are you sure you are ok’s’. Though a part of him, the part the still has an undying crush on the blond, a foolish, selfish part; it’s glad and preening to have the boy’s attention focused on him, by 3 pm Kyoya is sick of it. 

“Please Tamaki; it’s nothing for you to worry about. I assure you I am fine. The more you fuss the more the clients will notice; I don’t wish to cause any unnecessary worry to the customers.” That was enough to make the blond retreat if only hesitantly. 

However tiring Tamaki's fussing might be, it's far less annoying than the twin's teasing.

"Whoa! Kyoya-sempai are you trying out a new look 'the rouge, trouble-maker type" Hikaru intones getting in his seniors face to stare closely at the bruise adorning his cheek, unfazed by the death glare in Kyoya's eyes.

"Looks more like the 'cool, beat up type" Kaoru teases with a laugh. "If this is how Kyoya-sempai ended up, I'd hate to see how the other one looks like." he adds, unknowingly adding insult to injury, delivering a blow to Kyoya's already beaten pride.

"Then I guess you have no trouble imagining how you two will end up if we continue this line of conversation," he bristles and snaps at them.

"Remember sempai club members can't be witnessed involving in acts of violence," Hikaru shot back smugly, him and Kaoru wearing matching grins.

"What make you think there will be any witnesses," he says in mock pleasantry. "And I believe you two have clients to attend to," he rebukes them sternly.

The smile he gives them and the threatening gleam of his glasses make the twins gulp nervously and hurry along to tend to the crowd of fawning girls.

The hypotensive evil lord he might be, but he has his limits and he’s close to it. He needs a moment to gather himself and sneaks into the supply’s room under pretense of doing inventory. He lets the clip board on a shelf and leans on it’ pulling off his glasses and loosening his tie. He pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves an exhausted sigh. He’s whole body aches in a dull throb, his head pounds and he is tiered. The drowsiness of the pills cleared out a long time ago, but he is weighted with a bone deep lethargy, like his limbs are made of lead. All of it punctuated by anxious worry, wondering how is Ranka doing. But he is afraid to call to check on him. Kyoya can tell the redhead has mixed emotions about the incident and about a boy being his ‘rescuer’; the older man doesn’t trust his intentions and he doesn’t want to aggravate the okama’s feelings. So he decides to wait until he can catch Haruhi alone for a moment and inquire about her father’s wellbeing. 

Haruhi doesn’t sees Kyoya until it’s club time, by then she is teeming with curiosity to know what happened and concerned for her father who has yet to answered any of her messages. Yet she refrains from passing Mr. Seiichiro’s message just yet. It is evident Kyoya doesn’t want to disclosure the real reason for his bruises, nor does he seem to be taking well to the attention this brings upon his person. She seizes the opportunity when the older boy slips into the supply room and she follows him in. 

“An accident huh?” she starts without preambles, startling him, causing the senior to whirl around sharply. 

The sudden motion makes his sore body ache and he grimaces. Well at least he doesn’t have to seek her out, she has come to him. 

She frowns, “Why not tell them the truth?” she asks.

“What truth would that be?” he replies coolly.

“That you got beat up in a back alley defending my Dad,” she sums up, that much she could deduce from what Mr. Seiichiro had explained and the appearance of the Shadow King.

An eyebrow bounces in irritation; she is always so straight forward and more than a little tactless. “What good would that do? It is no one’s business. There is also the fact that it can’t be known I was part of any violent incident, it’s against school regulations and I do have a reputation to up hold. Besides, imagine Tamaki’s reaction if he knew the truth,”

That thought alone sends sympathetic shivers down her spine. “Thank you,” she says with a formal bow. “From my Dad’s part and my own too,” 

He looks startled at her, “You are welcome,” he finally responds just as politely.

“What happened though? Could you tell me? Mr.Seiichiro didn’t tell me much except the stalker appeared again and that you helped Dad, but seeing the state you are in; there is clearly more to it than that.” 

So she hasn’t talked to her father since he left for work last night, she has no insight to ease his mind but it looks like maybe he can ease hers somewhat. 

“Don’t hold it against your father; he has his reasons for not wanting to tell you. But I believe you should know in order to understand the seriousness of the situation,” he gives her a precise if short account on the alley fight. 

“What I don’t get is what you were doing there in the first place?” –‘is that a blush!?’- Haruhi wonders at the rose color on the boy’s cheeks.

Like father like daughter, she questions his reasons too. He picks up his glasses, “How can I put it,” he says more to himself than to her, as he deliberately polishes his glasses with a handkerchief, “It appeared to me the situation is very serious, when you didn’t call to confirm or deny my escort proposal; It occurred to me that your father underestimates the magnitude of the danger he is in.”

“In other words you were worried,” she concludes simply.

“Well, yes…” he admits albeit begrudgingly. 

“Still it seems unlike you to go out of your way like that for an acquaintance,” she states, then seems to catch on to what she is saying when a hurt frown appears between the senior’s brows. “Sorry I don’t mean to question your intentions sempai. It’s just you go to such lengths to be a jerk, I forget you are actually a nice guy,” she tries to amend, though it still comes out more like an insult than a compliment. 

“Well you’ve pointed that out before, as to answer you, I was already out in the city, when my business concluded, a hunch I would say, drove me to check on your father since I was already in the vicinity,” he explains coolly dismissing her unintentional rudeness.

“In any case thank you Sempai, we owe you,” she reiterates. 

“No, it’s nothing I’m just glad your father isn’t seriously hurt,” and he says it with as much sincerity as she has ever heard the boy express, his eyes and face soften in something akin to tenderness. 

Hearing that eases her anxiety a lot better than Mr. Seiichiro’s reassurances. “How about you Sempai, are you truly okay?” she inquires a touch of genuine worry in her tone. 

“Yes, my pride is what is most wounded,” he dismisses her worry. 

She is about to press the issue when they are interrupted by Tamaki busting into the room, whining about why is Haruhi hiding all alone with ‘Mommy’. The slight accusatory tone irks Kyoya more than the unofficial tittle and he kicks them both out to tend to the costumers. After they are gone he takes out his mobile phone, not able to resist any more he sends the transvestite a message. 

The rest of Club time passes without incident as Kyoya observes its progress carefully. Tamaki is as dramatic and Haruhi oriented as always, something that the costumers don’t seem to mind, apparently the girls think it cute. Haruhi on her part seems more accepting of Tamaki’s affections, their bantering and bickering merely mock irritation. There is affection and admiration in her eyes when she looks at the blond and Kyoya has to look away. The Shadow King wonders if he ever looked at Tamaki with that same expression, wonders if he still does. The twins seem to be doing fine, recovering from Hikaru’s supposed crush on Haruhi; the relationship between them it’s mending nicely. On the other hand there is a slight distance between Honey-sempai and Mori-sempai that wasn’t there before a few weeks ago. No one else seems to notice the rift; as long as it doesn’t affect club productivity it’s no one’s business to pry into their seniors affairs. Maybe they are fighting over candy again. 

This time around Ranka wakes up alone, a note on the pillow next to his head. He groggily reaches for the paper and unfolds it, Seiichiro’s neat hand writing informs him the lawyer has a case in court today, none the less it invites him to make himself at home and stay for as long as he wants. As tempting as that sounds, one look at the clock has the okama scrambling out of bed. It is fifteen minutes pass three; Haruhi will be home soon, worried and angry at him for having dismissed her advice of not going to work only to end up being assaulted like she feared he would.

It had been his luck the Ootori kid had been there. The thought makes him both, smile at the dashing hero performance; and frown in dismayed embarrassment for not being able to protect himself and getting a teen ager hurt by his own inability.

On the way to the bathroom the redhead picks up his phone and it’s surprised to see that he has several missed calls and messages in his inbox. How didn’t he hear it ring not once? Of course, Seii had set it in silence mode, probably to allow the okama to sleep undisturbed. 

Most of the messages are from Haruhi asking if he is well, trying check on him. One message is from Seii reiterating the offer made in the note; a few from worried co-workers and one from his boss ordering him to take a couple of days off. He feels so tiered there is nothing he’d like more than crawling back under the covers and forget the last two nights ever happened. If only, with a sigh he begins to return calls, starting with Haruhi, after he reassured her that yes, he is okay and that he will be home as soon as possible, he sends a text to Seiichiro thanking the older man and letting him know he’d be heading home. 

The okama picks up after himself, takes a hot shower and changes into clothes he takes borrowed from Seii’s drawers because his dress from last night is ruined and quite frankly he can’t seem to stand the thought of walking out into the street in a woman’s outfit, convinced that as a man he’ll pass unnoticed by any forceful admirers. He decides to call a cab; he is too tiered and freaked out to walk all the way home on his own, this fact only serves to put him in a darker mood.

His cellphone beeps announcing a new message. His brows rise in surprise, it’s from Kyoya. ‘Ranka, How are you? Is there anything you need? Everything is being taken care of. K.O’ The message it’s simple and to the point much like the boy himself, but it’s also surprisingly reassuring. It actually eases Ranka’s fears. The older man doesn’t know why or how but when the Ootori boy promises to protect him, Ranka believes him. 

As the cityscape drift pass the window he can only think of being home safe with his daughter, even if it means being scolded and lectured by an anxious Haruhi. 

When club time ends only Tamaki and Kyoya are left in the music room 3, as they pack and close up for the evening it occurs to the bespectacled boy that he didn’t inform Haruhi of his plans to ensure her father’s safety. No matter, it’s not like the okama has a say in it anyways. Kyoya had made up his mind; the matter is out of the older man’s hands. Tamaki gives him a ride home, fussing all the way. Now that they are alone there is nothing he can do to deflect his friend. He compromises with telling the half French boy he had defended an exceptional lady’s honor. The look of hero worship his King gives him makes Kyoya’s heart ache. He wishes he could have had the blond look at him like that for the last three years; that he would focus on him with such admiration, worry and fondness. But it was not to be, it’s not for him to have.

When he is dropped off at his state the brunette calls up a car from his family private police and goes out to the okama bar to discuss his plans with the owner and to supervise the work he has ordered to be done. He doesn’t make it back home until late that night; he drags his tiered body up to his room, forsakes dinner, takes the most powerful pain killers in his med cabinet and crawls under the sheets. At least his mind is at ease, the preparations have been made and he has ensured that Ranka is safe. With that comforting thought he surrenders to exhaustion into a drugged deep sleep.


	6. Goodwill Gestures Mistrusted

In the days that follow Kyoya’s appearance and overall mood improves. The bruising has mostly faded, leaving yellowing splotches that will vanish soon enough. By the time his father and siblings return to the Ootori state there will be no physical evidence of the fight-a.k.a. beating-, at least not on his face. The contusions on his torso are another matter, but since he is not in the habit of walking around shirtless his family will remain none the wiser to his alley brawl.

The security system he develops for the Okama bar takes longer to install than it should; mainly due to the resistance of the owner. He has had to persuade the old, reticent okama to comply with its instalment. The transvestite is reluctant to accept it as an act of good will on the Ootori boy’s part. Insisting there is no way he can afford the state of the art equipment and trained personnel. It is only a matter of time before the Shadow King loses his patience. 

“As a proprietor you are responsible for the safety of your employees in your establishment and its immediate premises. As okamas the laws barely protect you, but you can protect yourselves. I’m merely giving you the means to guarantee the security of your business and those who work for you,” it’s his winning argument. 

It is a bit underhanded but he is not above subtle coercion and it gets him the compliance he needs. Once the plan is well underway he approaches the affronted okama in hope to smooth things over with him, they will be seeing a lot of each other as of now until the matter of the stalker is resolved and it’s best to keep their relations as cordial as possible. 

“Please, I just want to do a favour for a dear friend,” he insists, willing the older man to understand. He goes as far as to draw up a contract that binds him unable to charge the ‘Mistress’ for the CCTV equipment or to pay the trained officials of his private police in any way nor under any circumstance. Why is it so hard to accept the sincerity of his actions? He is not trying to swindle the pseudo woman. He is the son of a tycoon not a yakuza. Though many would argue both operate the same, at best case scenario the only difference would be the legality of their business. Still his intentions are legit, even if he can’t think of a way of proving it to this stubborn, untrusting man. 

However, after that heartfelt plea the tranny gives him an apprising look, whatever he finds in the teen’s eyes softened his whole demeanour instantly. From that point on every interaction between him and the okama is permeated with an underlying emotion Kyoya can only describe as commiseration…or is it pity? 

As much as it irks him, the teen decides he is not going to puzzle over it. He already suspects what the old tranny saw and he is not willing to scrutinize it in order to confirm or refute it; especially since he hasn’t been called on it. He is content with having the security protocol underway and with having convinced the owner to give Ranka a paid leave of absence –to which Kyoya is providing the money and the employer the signature on the check- at least until the place is secured to the boy’s standards.

In the meantime, daily inquiries to Haruhi that reassure him of her father’s wellbeing are the only thing that sooths his brimming worry and frustration and allows him to get a relatively peaceful sleep at night. He really has it bad, he admits to himself; as bad as he’s had it for a certain blond for the last three years. 

Ranka has mixed feelings when he is called back to work a couple of days later. He is relieved mainly, Ranka appreciates the sentiment of being given time to recover and pull himself together. But there are bills to pay, with or without a harasser in the prowl; and he will be damn if his daughter’s needs and comforts aren’t met. His own safety is irrelevant, Haruhi is so self-reliant and independent in every other aspect; this is the only thing he is able to do for her and he will not fail her. It’s with that thought firmly set in his mind that he tries to ignore the nervous tremors and the queasiness in his stomach as he gets ready for work. 

“It should be safe enough, even if the creep does show up again,” the Mistress had said, his attempt at a feminine tone was a high pitch shrill even through the earpiece of the phone. The man isn’t fooling anyone, but it is all part of the okama impersonation, Ranka knows it better than anyone, and it is a comforting familiarity. 

The transvestite hasn’t been comfortable with dressing as a woman since the night when he first got followed, even less after he was jumped in the alley. This last two days he has opted for wearing sweats and t-shirts, the only gender neutral clothes he owns he realized. It’s been years since he went shopping to a men’s clothe store. Preferring to improve his okama wardrobe instead; as he is always at work and he figured skirts are good enough to go out in too, everyone in the neighbourhood knows his chosen career anyways. He hadn’t felt insecure in a dress before; now he absently makes a mental note to buy at least a pair of jeans, some dress shirts and a pair of shoes without high heels. 

Ranka stares hard at his wardrobe; he really doesn’t want to go out in any type of skirt. After a while of digging around he finds something that shouldn’t make him feel too exposed and he begins to prepare for his first night back at the bar.

Haruhi sits in the living room, her homework spread around her; but she is too distracted to do it. She can feel her father’s anxiety at returning to work and she shares the sentiment. It makes her uneasy; her dad has been acting strange since the incident, skittish and subdued. This past two days he has been…well , as sexist as it sounds, he has been a man, he hasn’t as much as looked at his dresses, he hasn’t done his hair nor put on makeup, he hasn’t even shaved the slow growing stubble on his chin and he hasn’t fluctuated his voice pass the sweet tenor to the higher pitch of pseudo feminization. It’s weird to see him acting so masculine; before she can ponder it further she is pulled out of her musings by the ringing of the door chime. 

“Who is it?” she calls as she crosses the kitchenette to the door. 

“It’s Kyoya. I’ve come to escort your father to work,” the teen’s voice is muffled by the door but there is no mistaking those clipped tones. 

The onabe undoes the latch and opens the door; if she is surprised hearing her sempai is standing at the door; seeing him flanked by two of his family private police officers leaves her dumbstruck. 

“Sempai?” 

“Good evening Haruhi, I am sorry to drop in unannounced, I’ve come to escort Mr Fujioka, is he ready to go?” Kyoya says his tone a little more formal than she is used to hear from him. He hasn’t talked to her like that since before they had the impromptu encounter at the shopping expo and the hypotensive evil lord showed his true colours acting casually around her, well as casual as an Ootori can afford to be. 

“What? Oh no, not yet he’s still getting ready, uh please come in,” she stands aside awkwardly, relieved when only the young man enters her home and the officers stay out standing guard at the door. 

“I’m sorry if it seems like a bit of a spectacle, but I deemed it necessary at the moment,” he didn’t sound sorry at all but with the goons outside his tone becomes more relaxed. 

“Haruhi, who is at the door?” Ranka’s voice calls from deeper within the apartment. 

“It’s Kyoya-sempai!” she replies, no sooner had she said the name, a door slams open and the okama’s feet pad rapidly towards them. 

“Kyoya dear, what a surprise!” Ranka greets, he is dressed in a bathrobe his hair bundled up, and a dab of shaving cream still clings to one ear. “How are you?! I was so worried, Haruhi said you were all bruised,” he rambles as he rushes the teen, holding him by the shoulders to look him over. “You look fine now, thank goodness!” and before he realizes what he is doing he sweeps up the younger man in an enthusiastic hug. 

“Dad, stop that!” Haruhi admonishes, mortified by her dad’s exuberant behaviour. 

Kyoya doesn’t have time to react to the barrage of questions, let alone avoid the sudden invasion of his personal space. So he is caught off guard and is unable to suppress the wince and gasp at the painful pressure of the man’s arm around his torso. 

Ranka immediately draws back, “You are hurt!” he exclaims. There are equal parts admonishment and concern in his tone. “How bad is it? Let me see,” he asks.

“It’s nothing…” Kyoya tries to dismiss the tranny’s concern. 

“You will show me young man,” he demands in a very paternal tone that leaves no room for refusal. 

With a wary sigh the boy slowly removes his shirt, this time it’s Ranka and Haruhi who gasp at the myriad of colours adorning his chest and back. The older man takes a step towards the boy, but Kyoya instinctively withdraws from him and redresses, covering his torso quickly. 

“Please, don’t concern yourself, I assure you I am fine,” he says politely regaining his cool composure. He re-arranges his clothes methodically, the glare reflecting off his glasses hide his eyes making the expression on his features unreadable. “I can see you’re not ready yet, I’ll be waiting outside. If you’ll excuse me,” his tone is low and cordial, but there is an edge to his voice. 

“What? Oh no, I’m sorry, I’ll be done in a moment. Please sit down, would you like some tea?” Ranka offers. Sensing he has somehow upset the teen, the man rushes back into the safety of small talk. 

“Dad I’ve got this, go get ready,” Haruhi finally intervenes terminating the awkward and tense interaction, ushering her father to his room and her sempai into the living room.

In a few minutes Haruhi hands the Shadow King a cup of tea. “Sorry about that, dad can be overbearing at times,” she excuses her father’s behaviour, taking a sit opposite to him; she studies the older boy openly. 

“It’s quite alright,” he replies with a smile. “I can deal with that, I’m just not used to it coming from someone other than Tamaki,” he explains his own awkwardness in the situation pretending he is not unnerved by her scrutinizing gaze. 

The comment makes her laugh, “I hate to admit it but they really are alike, aren’t they,” she points out good-naturedly. 

“A lot more than either cares to admit,” Kyoya concedes thoughtfully. 

“Say, are you really alright sempai?” she asks all traces of humour gone; never one to avoid what is in front of her, Haruhi always takes a direct if not tactless approach. 

“Yes, it looks worse than it really is,” he replies truthfully, readily taking advantage of the fact that she didn’t specify as to what aspect of his wellbeing she is referring to, “it’s only bruising, bone deep, but it’s not serious and already on the mend, it will only take a bit longer to clear up,” 

She accepts that with a nod and tackles the next point of concern in her mind. “This is quite a surprise Kyoya-sempai, why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” she asks, there is no accusation in her voice, only genuine curiosity. 

“Because he is just like you, or more accurately you are a lot like him; by knowing how you would react I can make an educated guess as to what his reaction would be like, it doesn’t take a genius to conclude it would’ve been a repeat of as last time,” he replies in all honesty.

The transvestite girl looks at him inquiringly, prompting him to elaborate. 

“You are both caring, but incredibly obstinate; so you won’t ask for help and have difficulty accepting it when it’s offered freely,” he says by means of explanation, that doesn’t really explain. “If I had let him know I’d be escorting him he would’ve refused, argued against it, and even left for work earlier than he normally does in order to avoid me. Whereas by showing up unannounced, even if he is to take offence at my forwardness, he can’t refuse my offer,” he adds as matter-of-fact, but unable to supress the smug smirk on his lips.

“As cunning and resourceful as ever Kyoya-sempai,” she says without malice, if only a bit wary of his ability to manipulate situations to his advantage. 

Ranka dresses quickly, he is surprised and confused about the Ootori boy turning up at his door with an escort; but he’d be lying if he said the company doesn’t ease his frayed nerves considerably. He checks himself in the mirror, his somewhat neutral attire and the certainty of an escort makes him a little more confident in his okama role for the first time since the first incident.

“It’s not my usual style, but it doesn’t look bad at all, right?” the transvestite asks as he steps into the living room where the two teens have been waiting. 

Kyoya looks at the cross-dresser appraisingly. The man is dressed in a steel grey blouse with a bateau neck line and cap sleeves; tucked into a pair of high waist, flare dress pants in a dark charcoal grey. A black thin belt matches the kitten heel shoes and small purse. The whole look is finished with his auburn hair piled up in a loose bun, a few straying strands framing his lightly makeuped face. The outfit gave him an air of stylish elegance that made him look more like a high executive than a hosting okama. 

“Well, how do I look?” he insists hesitantly at the prolonged silence.

Haruhi can’t remember the last time she saw her dad leave the house in something other than a skirt. “You look good dad,” she assures him wondering just how much this whole situation is affecting him. 

“As stunning as ever Ranka,” Kyoya replies, reminding himself that ogling is rude. 

The compliment makes the redhead smile and even blush. He hears that every day from his clients at the bar, but it feels different when Kyoya says it; sincere, not just an empty compliment. 

“I’ll be going now Haruhi, remember to lock up and don’t stay up too late,” the father says as cheerfully as ever. 

The young man stands and bows slightly to the girl, “I’ll return your father home safely tonight,” he promises, ignoring the fact that he sounds like he is asking to take her father to prom night. 

“I know you will sempai,” she says calmly, apparently impervious to the unusualness of the situation, knowing the promise to be true. 

The third son follows the okama to the door and helps the older man into his coat. 

“Ciao Haruhi, remember daddy loves you,” he calls with a final wave.

“Take care dad,” the anxious daughter replies closing the door behind him.

In the car they ride in the back seat, the two officers at the front. The trip is filled with an awkward, uncomfortable silence, both men at a lost as what to say. 

“I must apologize Ranka,” the brunette is the first to speak. “I didn’t mean to intrude upon you so brusquely, I hope I didn’t come off as too forceful; but otherwise you wouldn’t have accepted these arrangements,” Kyoya says truly contrite, hoping he hasn’t cross the line and offended the older man. 

“You are probably right, but I’m grateful that you’ve gone through all this trouble. It’s very reassuring to know someone is there to keep the creeps away, I’m sure all the other girls feel the same way,” the redhead concedes. 

“I’m afraid I stepped on a few toes and twisted some arms to get this arranged. I’m not in the good graces of some of your co-workers,” he replies with a wry smile. “But regardless of that it’s my honour to keep you safe,” 

Ranka is taken aback by the sincerity in the teen’s voice and the seriousness in his eyes. It’s an open expression he had never associated with the younger man. It’s as oppose to the usual polite, calculating façade as hot and cold. The older man can’t help but feel he has been privy to a glimpse of the real Kyoya. That the Ootori’s third son has exposed some private part of him even if unintentionally, it shows the boy is comfortable around him, it makes the older man feel trusted and that he can trust in turn. An inexplicable feeling of safety suddenly rushes through him. However, they arrive at the bar before he can mull this occurrence further.

The okama looks nervously out the window, unease returning with a vengeance, “Well thanks for the ride, you are dear,” he says, but I doesn’t sound as carefree as he had planned, trepidation seeping into this tone regardless of his attempt at bravado. 

“Don’t be afraid,” the Ootori boy takes one of the okama’s hands in his own. “I’ve got security on every door, officer around the perimeter and the car will be here when you clock out, I promise you are safe,” he reassures the older man, giving the larger hand an encouraging squeeze. 

“Call me crazy, but I believe you,” and he truly does, with that he winks at the boy and exists the car. 

Kyoya watches Ranka, with one officer in front and one at his back, the transvestite swaggers into the bar as if his confidence wasn’t wavering and falling apart at the seams. At that moment the Shadow King feels a surge of admiration for the strength of character displayed by Rioyi Fujioka. 

The bar is still pretty much the same; save for the stealthily installed mini cameras that are monitored from the Mistress office and from the Ootori private police headquarters. There are bouncers at every door, leaving the inside security to the already hired personnel, while a few Ootori officers make patrol rounds in a circuit that encompasses the entire block. There’s not a dingy alley unlit, not an angle of the bar that is not being caught on tape, inside or out. 

The changes are subtle but effective; he notices there is a difference in the atmosphere. There is the same lively buzz of pleasant conversation, but the girls seem more relaxed and comfortable than he has ever seen them before, which in turn makes the patrons feel more welcome and therefore more willing to spend their money on various refreshments and more importantly in tipping the okamas generously for their pleasurable company. A good increase in business may be on its way. 

After a brief talk with the Mistress, Ranka realizes that the toes and arm Kyoya had referred to are none other’s than the old okama’s. Who kept complaining saying ‘your rescuing prince is as shrewd as he is charming,’ but he really had nothing bad to say about the third son of the Ootori group. 

The rest of his night passed in a flurry of pleasant conversations and interactions with his co-workers and regular clients all clamouring that he had been missed, that they had been worried for him, asking about the dashing hero who rescued him and expressing how happy they are now that he is back. 

It isn’t until it’s time to leave that the unpleasant unease returns to the forefront of his mind. He and the other okamas who have closed shop are preparing to leave, since the assault on Ranka they had agreed on leaving together, feeling it’s safer to travel in packs. The moment they step out of the establishment the two officers are at their side, including all of the girls into their protective periphery. The okamas coo at their guardians in teasing approval and some whistle impressed as they see the large expensive car that awaits their redheaded co-worker, the infamous rescuer himself standing next to it holding the door open for him. 

“You lucky girl,” “You get the red carpet treatment,” “Oohoo nice chariot Cinderella,” the okamas comment, shoving their friend forward playfully.

Kyoya watches amused, then with a genial smile says, “Then it must be all of you beautiful ladies lucky night, can I offer you transportation back to your lodgings?” he asks with a courteous bow. “And I assure this one won’t turn into a pumpkin,” he adds with a flirtatious wink. 

The okamas squeal in delight and the ones that didn’t drive to the bar themselves readily agree and clamber excitedly into the spacious vehicle. They all fit in comfortably, the transvestites all ooh and awe at the space, the slick leather upholstery, the plush carpeting and the minibar. The young man humours them, and offers them to partake on the assorted refreshments available. As they make their rout to drop them all off at their respective houses Kyoya engages them in small talk, in full host club mode he entertains the group of trannies as a professional host would. So expertly that not even the okamas realize they are being played at their own game. 

Finally all of Ranka’s friends are dropped off; he is the last one to be delivered safely. “I’m sorry you had to put up with them, they can be quite a handful,” he says apologetically as they arrive at his apartment complex. 

“It’s no hassle; it would be unfair to leave them unprotected,” Kyoya points out coolly. “At least I thought you’d feel that way if I had left them standing on the sidewalk to fend for themselves. I don’t mean to sound cold, my priority is your safety but I am also aware that any of them could become a victim. My efforts are aimed to spare them that misfortune if I can help it,” 

Ranka stares at the boy; his tone, almost dismissive, clashes in stark contrast with the warm friendliness he had been displaying but a few minutes ago. If he hadn’t known that neither façade holds true to the boy’s true motives and actions he would’ve been offended. Instead he chuckles, causing the Shadow King to look at him, a brow delicately arched in inquiry as to what the okama finds to be so humorous. Ranka, however, refrains from telling the teen exactly how unconvincing his cool detached act is. He knows the boy genuinely cares, ‘why can’t he just admit it?’ he silently wonders.

“Thank you again for everything Kyoya,” Ranka says, he leans across the sit and places a chaste kiss on Kyoya’s cheek. 

The boy’s eyes widen a fraction, heat rises to his face and he is grateful for the dim lighting least Ranka notice the red on the tip of his ears. “You are welcome, sleep well,” he manages to push pass his suddenly dry throat. 

The okama smiles amused, ‘he looks cute blushing like that, I would like to make him all kinds of flustered’ the thought sneaks up on him out of nowhere, his mind screeching to a sudden halt and he knows he is blushing now as well. “You too, good night,” he says awkwardly, struggling to push the thought out of his mind. He is glad the driver chooses that moment to open the door and help him climb out of the vehicle allowing him to escape the suddenly uncomfortable situation graciously. The two officers accompany him all the way to his door and don’t leave until he slides the latch home. 

Kyoya watches as the two officers accompany Ranka all the way to his apartment. It’s not until the okama is securely locked in his home and the surrounding area scouted for potential danger that Kyoya allows himself to be taken home. On the way the driver drones on chastising the teen for the late hours, bemoaning that he is sure that his young charge won’t be going to bed when they got back to the estate, but would stay up even later into the wee hours of the morning to catch up on piling homework and studies that he had neglected since taking up this new endeavour of escorting dubiously reputed okamas. 

The less than polite comment passes unchecked. Kyoya is too distracted to reprimand the servant, any other time the young man would’ve verbally flayed the skin of the daring driver for his unjust slight against Ranka’s virtue. The teen is lost in imagining the ghost touch of the okama’s lips lingering on his skin, the warmth that coloured his cheeks has now seeped down to his chest and expanded even farther down. Buffering the perception of his surroundings; his hormone idled imagination proves to be as excitable as his pubescent body and just as distracting. Through the entire trip home Kyoya doesn’t consciously register a single word of the man’s diatribe.


End file.
